IN SITKA TOWN
The long-beaked and wonderfully carved Chilkat canoe was taken on the
_Phoca’s_ deck, the anchor was weighed, and, with the trim cutter
headed southward, the last stage of the adventurous journey, pursued
amid such strange vicissitudes, was begun. As the ship sped swiftly
past the overhanging ice-fields of Davidson Glacier, out of Chilkat
Inlet into the broad, mountain-walled waters of Lynn Canal, and down
that thoroughfare into Chatham Strait, Captain Matthews listened with
absorbed interest to Phil’s account of the remarkable adventures that
he and Serge had encountered from the time he had last seen them at the
Pribyloff Islands down to the present moment.
“Well,” said he, when the recital was finished, “I’ve done a good bit
of knocking about in queer places during thirty years of going to sea,
and had some experiences, but my life has been tame and monotonous
compared with the one you have led for the past year. Why, lad, if an
account of what you have gone through in attempting to take a quiet
little trip from New London to Sitka was written out and printed in a
book, people wouldn’t believe it was true. They’d shake their heads and
say it was all made up, which only goes to prove, what I never believed
before, that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, after all.”
“Yes,” replied Phil; “and the strangest part of it all is the way that
fur-seal’s tooth has followed us and exerted its influence in our
behalf from the beginning to the very end. Why, sir, if it hadn’t been
for that tooth you wouldn’t have come to Chilkat, and we shouldn’t be
in the happy position we are at this very moment.”
“You don’t mean to say,” cried Captain Matthews, “that it turned up
again after your father lost it?”
“Oh yes, sir, and it’s been with us, off and on, all the time.”
“Then at last I can have the pleasure of showing it to my daughter.
Would you mind letting me have it for a few minutes?”
“Unfortunately, sir――”
“Now don’t tell me that you have gone and lost it again!”
“Not exactly lost it,” replied Phil. “At the same time, I don’t know
precisely where it is nor what has become of it, only it is somewhere
back in Klukwan, where it originally came from, and I have every reason
to believe that it is in possession of the principal Chilkat Shaman.”
“I declare, that is too bad!” exclaimed the captain. “If I had known
that sooner I believe I should have kept right on and shelled the
village until they gave me the tooth, so strong is my desire to get
hold of it.”
“And so secured to yourself the ill-luck of him who steals it,” laughed
Phil.
That afternoon the _Phoca_ turned sharply to the right, and began
to thread the swift-rushing and rock-strewn waters of Peril Strait,
the narrow channel that washes the northern end of Baranoff Island,
on which Sitka is situated. Now Serge stood on the bridge beside his
friend, so nervous with excitement that he could hardly speak. Every
roaring tide rip and swirling eddy of those waters, every rock with its
streamers of brown kelp, every beach and wooded point, were like
familiar faces to the young Russo-American, for just beyond them lay
his home, that dear home from which he had been more than three years
absent.
Suddenly he clutched Phil’s arm and pointed to a lofty, snow-crowned
peak looming high above the forest and bathed in rosy sunlight.
“There’s Mount Edgecumbe!” he cried; and a few minutes afterwards,
“There’s Verstovoi!” Phil felt the nervous fingers tremble as they
gripped his arm; and when, a little later, the cutter swept from a
narrow passage into an island-studded bay, he could hardly hear the
hoarse whisper of: “There, Phil! there’s Sitka! Dear, beautiful Sitka!”
And Phil was nearly as excited as Serge to think that, after twelve
months of ceaseless wanderings, the goal for which he had set forth was
at last reached.
Serge pointed out in rapid succession the picturesque Greek church,
the quaint little house known as the Governor’s Mansion, the marine
barracks, the solid log structure of the old Russian trading company,
the long, straggling Indian village, and the fine “Governor’s Walk”
leading to beautiful Indian River. But he looked in vain for the
most conspicuous landmark of all; for old Baranoff Castle, crowning
Katlean’s Rock, had been destroyed by fire since he left home.
[Illustration: GOVERNOR’S MANSION, SITKA, ALASKA]
The _Phoca_ had hardly dropped anchor before another ship appeared
entering the bay from the same direction. “The mail-steamer from Puget
Sound,” announced Captain Matthews.
This boat brought but few passengers, for the season was yet too early
for tourists; but on her upper deck stood a gentleman and a lady, the
former of whom was pointing out objects of interest almost as eagerly
as Serge had done a short time before.
“It is lovely,” said his companion, enthusiastically, “but it seems
perfectly incredible that I should actually be here, and that this is
the place for which our Phil set out with such high hopes a year ago.
Do you realize, John, that it is just one year ago to-day since he left
New London? Oh, if we only knew where the dear boy was at this minute!
And to think that I should have got here before him!”
“Now he will probably never get here,” replied Mr. Ryder; “for, on
account of that California offer, I shall be obliged to return directly
to San Francisco from St. Michaels without even a chance of going up
the Yukon, which I know will be a great disappointment to Phil. But
look there, Ruth. You have been wanting to see a canoe-load of Indians,
and here comes as typical a one as I ever saw. A perfect specimen of
an Alaskan dug-out, natives in full winter costume, Eskimo dogs, and
a sledge, I declare! They must have just come back from a hunting
expedition to the mainland. See the snow-shoes slung on their backs,
and how gracefully they handle their paddles! Even Phil might take a
lesson from them in that.”
“And, oh!” cried Miss Ruth, “there is a tiny bit of a child, all in
furs, just like its father. See? Nestled among the dogs, with a pair of
wee snow-shoes on his back too. Isn’t he a darling? How I should love
to hug him! Oh, John, we must find them when we get ashore; for that
child is the very cutest thing I have seen in all Alaska.”
“All right,” replied Mr. Ryder, smiling good-naturedly at his sister’s
enthusiasm. “We will watch and see where they make a landing.”
By this time the steamer was made fast, and the passengers were already
going ashore. When Mr. Ryder and his sister gained the wharf they were
surprised to see that the very canoe in which they were interested
had come to the landing-stage, where its occupants were already
disembarking.
“What fair complexions they have for Indians,” said Miss Ruth, stopping
to watch the natives. As the foremost of them ran up the steps, she
moved aside to let him pass. The next moment she uttered a shriek of
horror, for he had suddenly thrown his arms about her neck and kissed
her.
“Aunt Ruth, you’re a brick! a perfect brick!” he cried. “To think of
you coming away out here to see me!” Then turning to Mr. Ryder, and
embracing that bewildered gentleman in his furry arms, the excited boy
exclaimed: “And pop. You dear old pop! If you only knew how distressed
I have been about you! If you hadn’t turned up just as you have, I
should have dropped everything and gone in search of you.”
[Illustration: “AUNT RUTH, YOU’RE A BRICK! A PERFECT BRICK!”]
“Oh, Phil, how could you?” gasped Aunt Ruth. “You frightened me almost
to death, and have crushed me all out of shape. You are a regular
polar-bear in all those furs and things. What do you mean, sir? Oh,
you dear, dear boy!” At this point Miss Ruth’s feelings so completely
overcame her that she sat down on a convenient log and burst into
hysterical weeping.
“There, you young scamp!” cried Mr. Ryder, whose own eyes were full
of joyful tears at that moment. “See what you have done! Aren’t you
ashamed of yourself, sir?”
“Yes, pop, awfully. But I’ve got something that will cheer her up and
amuse her. And here’s Serge and―― No he isn’t, either. What has become
of Serge? Oh, I suppose he has gone home. Don’t see why he need be in
such a hurry, though. No matter; here’s Jalap Coombs. You remember
Jalap, father? And here, Aunt Ruth, is the curio I promised to bring
you from Alaska. Look out; it’s alive!”
With this the crazy lad snatched Nel-te from the arms of Jalap Coombs,
who had just brought him up the steps, and laid him in Miss Ruth’s lap,
saying, “He’s a little orphan kid that I found in the wilderness, and
adopted for you to love.”
Miss Ruth gave such a start as the small bundle of fur was so
unexpectedly thrust at her that poor Nel-te rolled to the ground. From
there he lifted such a pitifully frightened little face, with such
tear-filled eyes and quivering lips, that Miss Ruth snatched him up and
hugged him. Then she kissed and petted him to such an extent that by
the time he was again smiling he had won a place in her loving heart
second only to that occupied by Phil himself.
In the meantime Musky, Luvtuk, and big Amook were tearing madly up and
down the wharf, yelping and barking their joyful recognition of the
fact that the long journey, with its months of hard work, was ended,
and for them at least play-time had come.
With this journey’s end also came the partings that always form so sad
a feature of all journeys’ ends. Even the three dogs that had travelled
together for so long were separated, Musky being given to Serge, Luvtuk
to May Matthews, to become the pet of the _Phoca’s_ crew, and big Amook
going with Phil, Aunt Ruth, Nel-te, the sledge, the snow-shoes, and the
beautiful white, thick-furred skin of a mountain goat to distant New
London.
Mr. Ryder and Jalap Coombs accompanied them as far as San Francisco.
Dear old Serge was reluctantly left behind, busily making preparations
to carry out his cherished scheme of returning to Anvik as a teacher.
In San Francisco Mr. Ryder secured for Jalap Coombs the command of a
trading schooner plying between that port and Honolulu. When it was
announced to him that he was at last actually a captain, the honest
fellow’s voice trembled with emotion as he answered:
“Mr. Ryder, sir, _and_ Phil, I never did wholly look to be a
full-rigged cap’n, though I’ve striv and waited for the berth nigh on
to forty year. Now I know that it’s jest as my old friend Kite Roberson
useter say; for he allus said, Kite did, that ‘Them as waits the
patientest is bound to see things happen.’”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
――The author’s em-dash style has been retained.